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THE MARTYRS.

OH! that it were as it was wont to be,

When thy old friends of fire, all full of Thee,

Fought against frowns with smiles! gave glorious chase
To persecutions, and against the face

Of death and fiercest dangers durst, with brave

And sober pace, march on to meet a grave.

On their bold breasts about the world they bore Thee,

And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach Thee;

In centre of their inmost souls they wore Thee,

Where racks and torments strived in vain to reach Thee.

Each wound of theirs was thy new morning,

And re-inthroned Thee in thy rosy nest.

With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning :

It was the wit of love o'erflowed the bounds

Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds.
Welcome, dear, all-adored name!

For sure there is no knee

That knows not Thee;

Or, if there be such sons of shame,

Alas! what will they do,

When stubborn rocks shall bow,

And hills hang down their heaven-saluting heads.

To seek for humble beds

Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night,

Next to their own low nothing they may lie,

And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread Majesty? They that by love's mild dictate now

Will not adore Thee,

Shall then with just confusion bow,
And break before Thee.

ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. R.

Lo! here a little volume, but great book,

(Fear it not, sweet,

It is no hypocrite,)

Much larger in itself than in its look.
It is in one rich handful heaven and all-
Heaven's royal hosts encamped thus small;
To prove that true, schools used to tell,
A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie

Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence,

Against the ghostly foe to take your part,

And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.

It is the armoury of light:

Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields

To holy hands and humble hearts
More swords and shields

Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts.

Only be sure

The hands be pure

That hold these weapons, and the eyes
Those of turtles, chaste and true,

Wakeful and wise,

Here is a friend shall fight for you. Hold but this book before your heart

Set prayer alone to play his part.

But oh! the heart

That studies this high art

Must be a sure housekeeper,

And yet no sleeper.

Dear soul, be strong,

Mercy will come ere long,

And bring her bosom full of blessings-
Flowers of never-fading graces,

To make immortal dressings,

For worthy souls whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's Son.

But if the noble Bridegroom, when He come,
Shall find the wandering heart from home,
Leaving her chaste abode

To gad abroad

Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies 2;
To take her pleasure and to play,

And keep the devil's holiday;

To dance in the sunshine of some smiling
But beguiling

Sphere of sweet and sugared lies;

Some slippery pair

Of false, perhaps as fair,

Flattering, but forswearing eyes;

Doubtless some other heart

Will get the start,

And, slipping in before,

Will take possession of the sacred store

Of hidden sweets and holy joys

Words which are not heard with ears,

(These tumultuous shops of noise,)

Effectual whispers, whose still voice

The soul itself more feels than hears;

Amorous languishments, luminous trances,

Sights which are not seen with eyes,

Spiritual and soul-piercing glances,

Whose pure and subtle lightning flies

Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire,

And melts it down in sweet desire.

2 Beelzebub.

Yet doth not stay

To ask the window's leave to pass that way;
Delicious death, soft exhalations

Of soul, dear and divine annihilations;

A thousand unknown rites

Of joys and rarified delights;

And many a mystic thing,

Which the divine embraces

Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring;

For which it is no shame

That dull morality must not know a name.

Of all this hidden store

Of blessings, and ten thousand more,

If when He come,

He find the heart from home,

Doubtless he will unload

Himself some other where;

And pour abroad

His precious sweets

On the fair soul whom first he meets.

O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear!

O! happy and thrice happy she, Dear silver-breasted dove,

Whoe'er she be,

Whose early love

With winged vows

Makes haste to meet her morning spouse,

And close with his immortal kisses!

Happy soul! who never misses

To improve that precious hour;

And every day

Seize her sweet prey,

All fresh and fragrant as he rises,

Dropping with a balmy shower,

A delicious dew of spices.
Oh! let that happy soul hold fast

Her heavenly armful: she shall taste
At once ten thousand paradises:

She shall have power

To rifle and deflower

The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets,

Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures

Of

pure inebriating pleasures.

Happy soul! she shall discover

What joy, what bliss,

How many heavens at once it is To have a God become her lover.

HYMN TO THE NAME OF JESUS.

ISING the Name which none can say
But touched with an interior ray;
The Name of our new peace our good
Our bliss and supernatural blood;
The Name of all our lives and loves:
Hearken, and help, ye holy doves!
The high-born brood of day; you bright
Candidates of blissful light,

The heirs-elect of love; whose names belong

Unto the everlasting life of song;

All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast
Of this unbounded Name build your warm nest.

A wake, my glory! soul, (if such thou be,
And that fair word at all refer to thee,)
Awake and sing,

And be all wing!

Bring hither thy whole self, and let me see

What of thy parent heaven yet speaks in thee.

Oh! thou art poor

Of noble powers,

I see,

And full of nothing else but empty me

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